


M23

by perdiccas



Category: Last Resort (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Military, Mission Fic, Yuletide 2012, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a landmine goes off in the marketplace, it threatens to bring civil war to Sainte Marina.</p><p>AU after 1.05 "Skeleton Crew".</p>
            </blockquote>





	M23

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyjax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyjax/gifts).



> Written for Yuletide 2012, for ladyjax. Thanks to Z. for the last minute yulechat beta!
> 
> Believe it or not, this fic was actually canon compliant when I started writing it. Then... more episodes happened and it fell prey to the hazards of writing for an on-going canon. I thought I would finish it anyway and hopefully you will still be able to enjoy it as a (thoroughly jossed) treat.

In the days following their unsuccessful negotiation, all contact with Washington goes dark. Two days and then three go by without word from Curry or his advisors. From the NATO early warning station, the crew continues to monitor Sainte Marina’s perimeter but the hostile ships stationed there hold fast, neither attacking nor retreating. The Captain shakes his head when the fourth day passes without attempted communication. “It’s basic siege tactics,” he says without concern. “They’re trying to wait us out. They want us to save them all some trouble and start to turn on each other.”

We already are, Grace thinks but it’s Sam who voices that thought.

“They won’t have to wait long, then,” he says flatly. “With all due respect, sir, if they won’t call us, maybe it’s time we call them?”

Nigel swivels around in his chair, proffering a telephone receiver in one hand and the other hovering hopefully, ready to dial. Grace watches the Captain’s face but he’s playing even closer to his chest than usual and she finds his expression impossible to read, including the lopsided grin slowly spreading on his lips.

“You have a steady girlfriend in high school, XO?” he asks, seemingly nonsensically. 

Sam takes the question in stride. With good humour, he replies, “Not ‘til senior year, sir.” 

Marcus nods knowingly, “Well maybe that’s because you didn’t know the rules: you don’t ever call back right after a date. We wouldn’t want to seem too eager. ”

Nigel drops the receiver back in its cradle with an exasperated sigh. The noise echoes through the otherwise silent room, and when Grace flinches, it’s as much at Marcus’s intractability as it is at the discordant sound.

 

The early morning shadows are only just starting to warm with the rising of the sun, when the marketplace explodes. 

Grace hits the ground hard. A hailstorm of dirt showers the street, a dozen spitting pellets stinging the exposed skin of her arms and the back of her neck. Her ears ring, echoing with sounds that are muted in a way she’s heard described as “like being underwater.” But it’s a sensation that couldn’t be further from the sonar’s clear, precise ping. Instead, the jack hammering of her pulse is all she has to guide her. Grace swallows down her rising panic and pushes herself up. 

She’s on her feet again just as James vaults down from the bar’s patio. Together they sprint into the cloud of dust before it can begin to settle. 

A man she recognises as one of the local merchants lies crumpled at the epicentre of the blast. His leg has been sheared clean off. He writhes in agony. The ground around him is dark and wet with a growing puddle of his own blood. In a split second, Grace evaluates the situation: others are injured too, cut by flying shrapnel, but no one else as severely. Not far away, she spots the heavy metal casing of what’s left of an anti-personnel device.

“You!” she shouts at the nearest sailor. Her fingers are quick as she unbuckles her belt, stripping it from around her waist when she crouches in the slick dirt. “Check the others for injuries and get this area cleared before anyone else steps on a landmine.”

She cinches her belt as tightly as she can around what’s left of the merchant’s thigh. As soon as the tourniquet is tied, James hauls him up and over his shoulder. They move quickly in single file, James on point and Grace covering him, following behind with her gun out and cocked. They step only in their own footprints, tracking the same path back out of the shadow of the fruit stall as they took rushing in. Grace scans the horizon and the edge of the jungle that borders the market but there’s no one there, no one waiting to pick them off, one by one, in the chaos. 

“Petty Officer Cahill,” Grace barks when they pass him, jogging quickly toward the hospital, “I need a medic up here from the boat. Tell them to bring whatever supplies they need to keep this man alive.” 

 

In the hospital, a harried looking sailor is running triage already. James pushes to the front of the line and without waiting for direction, deposits the injured man on the gurney that served as Hopper’s bed. Grace only has time to nod her thanks before the Captain strides into the ward with Sam in step. 

“Report, Lieutenant.” 

Grace stands smartly to attention, reeling off the pertinent details as succinctly as she can. “A single anti-personnel mine at the fruit stall down the street, sir. There was no suppressing fire to go along with it, so I don’t think it was intended as a distraction for an ambush. We’ve got the area cleared, but we’re still waiting on a full report of injuries.”

“Sir,” Sam hisses, low enough for only the Captain and Grace to hear. “That’s the same stall where Parker had a dust up a week ago.”

Marcus’s brow furrows. “You’re thinking one of our men might have done this? Retaliation over a _banana_?”

“Tensions are getting higher the longer we stay here,” Sam replies carefully. “I don’t think we can rule anyone out.”

“Captain!” the medic interrupts urgently. “We’re going to need blood, and a lot of it. If this man doesn’t get a transfusion, there’s no way he’s going to make it.”

They break apart and Marcus straightens up, surveying the ward as he barks orders. “XO, assemble the crew. Make sure everyone is accounted for and get as much blood taken as you can.” 

“Here,” Grace says immediately, offering her arm. “Start with me. I’m O neg.”

Sam shakes his head, pausing before he leaves. “You’re injured, Grace.”

She touches her forearm, noticing for the first time the long ragged gash there. She must have cut herself in the commotion.

“It’s a just scratch, sir,” she insists, brushing him off as respectfully as she can.

He studies her hard but nods. “All right. Carry on.” He rushes out the door, yelling for the crew to fall in. 

 

While a medic works on the mutilated man, more crewmen file in to give blood. Before long, the air is laced with an overwhelming metallic stench so thick it reminds Grace of a butcher’s shop at the end of a long summer day. As soon as she can, she escapes to the relative sanctuary of the NATO facility.

“Here,” Sophie says, handing her a cool glass of orange juice. 

Grace’s eyebrows jump in surprise. She has to shake herself before she remembers her manners. 

“Thanks.”

“ _De rien_. Sam said you gave blood, so.” She shrugs stoically, hugging her arms around herself. “I wanted to bring it over to the ward but your captain insists we stay indoors.” She inclines her head at a pair of sailors, armed with automatic rifles, stationed at the doors. Nigel pinches the bridge of his nose, pacing aimlessly up and down the control room and although it’s quieter than the hospital, Grace can tell that things are just as tense. 

She sidles up to Marcus’s side. He seems deep in thought but nods, acknowledging her presence. “Are the sentries really necessary, sir?” she asks, walking a careful line between assertive and out of order. 

Three quick cracks of pistol fire outside seem to answer that question for her. Grace follows closely on Marcus’s heels, out onto the balcony that overlooks the marketplace. 

Below them, Serrat rides into town, standing up in the back of a jeep. He’s a waving a pistol in one hand and he has a rifle cradled in the crook of his left elbow. His men are just as thoroughly armed, their chests criss-crossed dramatically with bandoliers of ammunition. They stamp their feet and slap their hands and machetes against the metal sides of the jeep. They make as much of an almighty racket as they can while Serrat lets loose a couple more shots into the sky.

Grace puts her hand on her sidearm, but Marcus touches her shoulder, stilling her before she can draw her weapon. “At ease, sailor,” he says calmly. His eyes, though, are not on her but instead locked with Sam’s, down in the chaos. 

Serrat jumps down and into the gathering crowd. At the edge of the commotion, Sam and a group of sailors stand. 

“My people,” Serrat cries. He pounds his fists against his chest, throwing his head back and wailing his words up into the heavens as if it is God he is addressing, not the townsfolk who are pressing closer. 

“My people,” he repeats, his voice cracking now, “What is it that has been done to you on this day?” He sweeps his arm dramatically towards the dirt crater in the street, his gesture encompassing the blood and injuries and screams of terror that have come to pass. “Who is it,” he says in a sharper voice, “who has done this to you?”

Grace tenses. The crowd is rumbling, stirred up by his words and she’s not the only one who notices the accusatory glare Serrat throws Sam’s way. People start to push and shove, joining in with Serrat’s soldiers as they make as much noise as they can. Serrat strides toward Sam, and the crowd parts in front of him as if he is a latter day prophet carrying the word of God. Sam stands his ground. And when Grace glances at the Captain from the corner of her eye, she sees him nod his head discreetly at the sentries. Sheltered just inside the doorway, out of view to avoid escalating the situation more than necessary, the sailors line up their sights on Serrat.

But he blows right by Sam, knocking his shoulder against him as he passes. The corner of Grace’s mouth twitches when he stumbles, ever so slightly, when Sam refuses to move. Serrat regains his stride in seconds. He swoops down quickly and scoops something up from the dirt.

Grace’s stomach clenches, a thousand recriminations running through her mind. She should have grabbed it before Serrat could have the chance. “Sir, that’s the—”

Marcus holds up one hand to silence her. “I know,” he says, leaning over the edge of the balcony railing to get a clearer view.

Serrat brandishes what’s left of the landmine’s metal casing in the air. “This!” he bellows. “This _device_ did not get here by accident, my friends.”

He shakes his head, looking at Sam more threateningly now. “No, this was planted. To bring pain and destruction to our island. And why?” He shrugs his shoulders theatrically; the crowd are getting even louder. Serrat’s foot soldiers walk among them, encouraging them with whistles and claps on the back as they shout out in an incomprehensible torrent.

Serrat holds up both of his hands and the casing again. Immediately the townspeople fall silent. “To hurt me,” he says simply.

He looks around at the people gathered but says nothing more. The people wait in silence, the anticipation growing tighter until suddenly, Serrat leaps back on top on the jeep. From his new vantage point, he shouts, “Whoever set this, this _thing_ , this piece of metal designed to rip one of you apart... they have done it because they know the deepest cut inflicted on a man is a cut in his family’s flesh.”

The crowd around the jeep cheers. Marcus jerks his head suddenly and Sam reacts instantly, urging the sailors with him back into the hospital ward. 

“You all, you are my family and for every drop of blood you bleed, I feel it, here—” He folds his hands over his heart. Grace wants to roll her eyes but it’s working. A woman in the crowd throws her hands in the air, weeping violently as she shouts her praises. “—when they hurt you, my people, _my family_ , they cut me in my soul.” 

He stamps his foot and the crowd shudders into silence again. “This will not stand.” He repeats, “I will not let this stand.”

He pivots suddenly so that he stands with his back to the majority of the crowd and aims his words to Marcus instead. “The man who is responsible, he will be punished ten-fold for what has happened here today. I will find him. That I swear to you.”

To Grace’s surprise, the Captain bellows back. “As do I.”

The two men stare at each other, silence filling the gulf between them. Grace’s fingers flex, braced to act if Marcus’s words spark something in the powder keg of a crowd. 

It’s Serrat who flinches first. He jerks his chin dismissively in their direction, slapping his hand against the jeep’s cab. His men pile in behind him as the engines revs back into life. “This is not over,” he promises ominously before they drive back into the jungle. 

 

They hold their position until Serrat is long gone and, while emotions are still volatile, the crowd has dispersed. Then Marcus turns quickly on his heel, swiping his cap from his head to wipe the sweat off his brow.

“That mine, lieutenant...”

She jumps in before he can dress her down. “I know, sir. I saw it on the ground and I should have grabbed it. It’s my fault, I’m sorry.”

“No,” the Captain says sharply. “You did the right thing. Getting that man medical aid was your priority. What I want to know is did you see it? Is it one of ours?”

“No,” Sam intones, loping into the room with a contingent of men behind him. He cocks his head and the men scatter, taking up positions at the doors and windows, doubling the guard that was there before. 

Sophie opens her mouth, obviously about to protest, but Marcus cuts her off. “If you do not value your own safety, Dr. Girard, or that of your colleagues, then you have to know the value this equipment has to NATO. Someone out there is trying to sabotage us and if they can’t get to the boat, this substation will be their next best target.”

Sophie clenches her jaw but backs down. 

Marcus turns to Sam. “XO, the landmine?”

“It’s American,” he says quickly. “But an older model. Nothing that’s been taken from the boat. Hell, nothing that’s seen action since the Cold War.”

Sophie’s eyes go wide with interest, seemingly despite herself. “Sainte Marina was a _département_ during the 1950s,” she says. She gestures around the room they’re in. “That’s when this early warning station was built, to watch for ICBMs.”

The Captain presses his fingers to his temple, rubbing the pressure point there as he thinks. “But there were no American troops stationed here, were there?”

Sophie thinks but ultimately shakes her head. “No.”

“We can rule out a forgotten stash of old weapons then...” Sam muses.

“What about the black market?” Grace says suddenly. Marcus inclines his head encouragingly, so she continues. “I knew a guy at the Academy who collected vintage munitions, mostly World War Two stuff, but there’s a market for anything that’s no longer seeing active duty.”

Sam nods, picking up on her train of thought. “Anything you can buy on the collectors’ market, you can buy under the table...” he trails off, a sudden pall falling over his expression. Through gritted teeth, he finishes. “And didn’t we just pick up a black market shipment on behalf of Serrat?”

“Sam,” Marcus says warningly. “We don’t know that was what that was.”

“I know what that was,” Sophie insists, ignoring the incredulous looks on their faces. “It was scientific equipment.” At Marcus’s continued look of disbelief, she clucks her tongue impatiently and continues, “Test tubes and chemicals, to test the soil and the water. Serrat, he is looking for something worth mining. Eh,” she frowns at her own poor choice of words. “For minerals in the ground. It was not weapons, Sam, I promise you. ”

“All right,” he offers begrudgingly. “It wasn’t weapons this time, but that wasn’t the first shipment he’s ever collected. He’s getting those guns from somewhere. Why not landmines, too?”

“Because whatever you may think of him...” Sophie says intently. She’s getting heated and her voice is starting to rise, “Serrat... he may not be a good man, but he would not hurt these people just to get at you.”

Grace shakes her head, snorts almost involuntarily at the misguided faith Sophie seems to put in the man. A man who shot one of their own in cold blood. 

“Listen to me,” Sophie insists. “When this is over, you will be gone but Serrat will still be here. He cannot push these people too far if he wants to keep his position.”

“And yet--” Sam throws up his hands sarcastically. His voice is getting heated too. “The quicker we’re out of here, the better it is for him. I don’t know, Sophie, he seems like the kind of man who’s not averse to breaking a few eggs to make an omelette. Especially if he can lay the blame on us.”

“If I may interject,” Nigel says quietly, clearing his throat. Spread out on the table in front of him is a map of the island. His finger rests on an ‘X’ scratched in an otherwise unremarkable portion of the island’s jungle. “Here,” he says tracing a different finger on the map, “is Serrat’s hide-away. And here,” he says as he taps the ‘X’, “is where he keeps his weapons store.”

Sophie balls her fists and glares at him. He adjusts his glasses nervously. “I’m not, uh. I’m not saying Serrat is behind this. I’m just saying, if you wanted to check, that’s where, uh... where you’d be wanting to go to do that.” 

He sits back down just as suddenly as he’d piped up, turning back to the radar screen. He curls into himself in the face of Sophie’s displeasure. 

“Fine,” the Captain says decisively. “XO, assemble a small team and check it out.”

Sophie grabs his arm, holding Sam back when he turns to go. “No,” she says harshly. “Don’t you see? You take your men and your guns and you storm in there like thugs and it won’t matter who placed that landmine, people will get hurt.”

Marcus cocks his head, frowning in thought. Reluctantly he acquiesces. “She’s right, Sam. You need to go in fast and quiet.”

“Word among the female crew, Marcus, is that’s the XO’s forte.” The COB leers obscenely at Grace but there’s less bite in his voice, somehow, since they successfully repaired the sonar array. “Funny thing is though, they don’t seem to see it as the virtue you do... Ain’t that right, Grace?”

“I wouldn’t know. Unlike you, I don’t stand around gossiping and painting my finger nails,” she shoots back.

He looks her up and down with a disappointed sigh. “I guess that explains why you’re looking so rough around the edges.”

“Thank you, COB. That will be all,” the Captain cuts him off with a long-suffering lilt to his voice. They may have been at Grace’s expense, but his words have broken the tension.

“In and out and they’ll never know I was there,” Sam promises.

“Sir.” The Captain looks at Grace curiously and she ducks her head, gesturing him closer so that she can speak with a semblance of privacy. “If Serrat is planning on goading these people into civil unrest, you’re going to need someone with more combat experience than me by your side.”

He looks about to disagree but Sam intercedes. “She’s right.” 

Grace tries desperately to keep her face neutral when Sam leans into the Captain’s side and says with his voice lower still, low enough that even she can barely overhear, “Until we get this figured out, we need to keep the crew on a tight leash. I don’t want any of our men starting something we can’t finish.”

 

When Grace packs her gear, it’s a pyrrhic victory. She’s on point, not because she’s most trusted to take the mission but because they don’t trust her ability to keep her own men in line. She straightens up to find Sophie leaning in the doorway to the office.

“Sorry,” Grace says automatically. “I’ll be out of your way soon.” She rolls up the map and slots it into her pack.

“No, I’m coming with you.” 

“What?” Grace looks at her in surprise. She’s dressed for hiking, with a pack of her own slung on her back. “No, you can’t.”

“Tch.” She shakes her head. “I can and I will. The weapons bunker, it is not as easy to get to as Nigel’s map makes it seem. I have been there. I will take you and when we are there, then you can be sorry because you will see that I am right. Serrat is not behind this. Besides,” she adds with a mischievous grin, “I’m French, eh, we know a bit about in and out.”

She laughs at her own terrible joke and while it’s the kind of thing that would make Grace rankle from the COB, she finds herself laughing too. “Not so good at keeping quiet, though,” she adds.

“Ah,” Sophie shrugs. “Well, that you can teach me on the way.”

 

Sophie leads Grace into the jungle behind the substation.

“The island women walk here to look for medicinal plants,” she explains. “It will not look suspicious if we take this route.”

They walk for hours along a path that, if it’s there, only Sophie can see it. Grace checks her compass, orienting herself with the map she has memorised and realises they’re coming at the weapons cache from the opposite direction to the one Nigel outlined. 

“How do you know this place?” she asks. “Did Serrat take you there?”

“ _Non_ ,” Sophie replies, stopping to turn and look at Grace, at the assault rifle she’s carrying and the pistol holstered at her hip. She takes a slug of water and shakes her head again, emphatically. “Serrat knows I would not be impressed by his guns.” She starts to walk again. “But this island is not so big and I have been here for a long time. There is not much that can stay hidden to those who really look.”

Before Grace can reply, Sophie holds up her hand in warning. Grace adjusts her grip on the rifle, drawing it up and ready. Her eyes narrow and she breathes out a low, steady breath. She focuses in on the jungle. The longer she stares, the easier it is to distinguish between the greens of the leaves and the vines and grass, and to see the movement Sophie had spotted between the trees. 

With a careful hand, Grace takes her by the shoulder and slowly presses down, guiding her until they’re both in a silent crouch. From the protective cover of the underbrush, they watch a man in a dirty US uniform make his way deeper into the jungle ahead of them. They wait, motionless, until the muscles in Grace’s thighs burn from holding her position and they can no longer hear him moving. 

“That was one of yours,” Sophie says in a low, accusatory whisper.

“No,” Grace replies. “He’s spetsnaz. Russian,” she adds at Sophie’s frown, “in disguise. He must have gone rogue when their unit bugged out.”

Grace holds her gun tighter, remembering the feel of a spetsnaz knife pressed against her throat. She fingers her radio but this mission is silent: no contact with the rest of the crew until she has proof one way or the other of Serrat’s involvement. 

Sophie must notice the anxiety prickling at Grace’s spine because for the first time, she seems hesitant. “Should you call for back up?”

Grace pulls her hand away from the walkie-talkie. She gives Sophie a gentle push forward, urging her on. “No. We follow through with the mission. The Captain can decide how to deal with him later.” When Sophie looks at her apprehensively, over her shoulder, Grace offers what she hopes is a comforting smile. “We just need to be even faster and quieter than we were before.”

A few hundred yards later in the direction from which the spetsnaz had come, Sophie stops again. She gestures at an overgrown clearing. “There,” she says but to Grace’s eye there’s no _there_ there.

“Where?” she presses. Sophie only laughs.

She walks delicately through the weeds, careful not to leave a path of uprooted plants in her wake, and shows Grace a large metal hatch hidden in the undergrowth. “Here.”

It looks like a blast door: reinforced steel fitted with the kind of crossbar handle Grace associates with old fashioned bank vaults in old Hollywood heist movies. “A bomb shelter,” she says.

“Mmm,” Sophie hums her agreement. “Here. Help me—” Together they twist the handle and pull the hatch open, revealing a ladder leading down into a yawning black hole in the landscape. It turns more easily than Grace expects, given the abandoned look of their surroundings. Someone is keeping the mechanism in well-oiled working condition. She is acutely aware that same someone could be somewhere nearby. 

“Stay up here,” she orders. 

Sophie starts to argue but Grace shoves her pistol into Sophie’s hands and points her in the direction of the jungle. “If anything goes wrong, get back to the Captain as quickly as you can.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t need _this_ ,” she spits, holding out Grace’s firearm disdainfully, as if it physically pains her to touch it.

“Good,” Grace says with stubborn finality. “Then you’ll have no problem holding onto it while I look around. Now go.”

She waits just long enough to confirm Sophie is obeying and then lowers herself down. She tries to be as quiet as she can but her footsteps ring on the metal rungs of the ladder and seem to echo like an alarm bell warning anyone around of her presence. She jumps the final two rungs, bending her knees as she lands on the bunker’s floor. She pauses, crouched, until her eyes adjust to the darkness.

The bomb shelter is one large room, the walls lined with metal shelving. Grace switches on her flashlight and swings the beam in an arc. It’s only sporadically filled with weapons, a hodgepodge of American and European models, everything from guns to grenades but she doesn’t spot any landmines. She turns off the flashlight again and takes down a shotgun. It isn’t loaded. Replacing it, she looks around the shelves again: there isn’t any ammo stored here. Her heart beats faster. Something about that strikes her as off - the lack of ammo, the minimal stockpile. It’s almost as if the weapons are in the process of being moved to another location.

Or the bunker has recently been raided. 

Leaving things exactly as she found them, Grace reaches for the ladder but with a deafening crack, a bullet zings down through the hatch. It ricochets around the metal walls. Grace covers her head with her arms but there’s nowhere to take cover.

“Throw down your weapons!” Grace recognises Serrat’s voice. She hesitates, her palms sweaty as she holds her rifle tighter to her chest. She considers flipping the switch on her walkie-talkie for one last Hail Mary and waiting to be rescued. She could use the chokehold of the hatch to pick them off one by one if Serrat and his men try to descend, but there won’t be any radio signal down here in a bunker with walls two feet thick.

Then, there’s a pained grunt. “Do as he says, Grace.” Sophie’s voice is strained and Grace imagines her with a gun to her head being forced to do as Serrat instructs. 

She throws her gun down in the pool of light created by the open hatch, where the men above will be sure to see it.

“Very smart,” Serrat says, his voice dripping with condescension. “Now you will come out slowly and no one will get hurt.”

The men waiting at the top of the ladder grab her by her shoulders when she emerges. They shove her around roughly, forcing her to her knees. They hold her hands behind her head. Serrat walks around her in a circle, coming to stand in front of her, so close she has to strain her neck to meet his eyes. He spits on the ground at her knees.

“Your Captain sends a woman to steal from me, I see.” He has Sophie by the arm and now, he shakes her hard. “But then, I am learning that women are nothing but snakes amongst the grass.”

“Julian,” Sophie says. Despite her frown, her voice is calm. “You’re hurting me.” 

He looks at her intently, leaning in close to her face. “It is I who have been hurt, Sophie,” he says slowly, enunciating each word loudly but still, he lets her go. Grace watches as she rubs her arm but otherwise she seems uninjured.

“So tell me,” he says, directing his words to Grace, “are you Americans so greedy that you must come back for a second helping even after you have spit my own things back in my face.”

Grace’s mind races but she can’t think of anything to placate him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Serrat laughs humourlessly. “You don’t know what I’m talking about?” He turns to his soldiers and taking their cue from him, they laugh too. “She doesn’t know what I’m talking about.” 

He moves suddenly, reaching for the bomb shelter’s hatch, heaving it with both arms to slam it shut. The metallic clang resounds through the jungle, startling the birds from their roosts so that they take to the sky in a thousand thundering wing-beats. 

“I am talking about the weapons your Captain has stolen from me,” he gestures wildly to himself, “to use against my people.” He swings his arms wide, indicating the whole island and all her inhabitants. “What kind of man is this Captain of yours, to set a bomb in a marketplace where the mamas shop with their babies, hm? What kind of person are you, that you would follow him?”

“We didn’t set that landmine,” Grace snarls.

“No?” Serrat sneers back. “Then tell me, who did? Who stole it from me and planted it where it could hurt me most?”

She wants to tell him to can the melodrama, that there’s no one here that doesn’t believe he would be capable of such an act if it suited his motives but she’s mindful of Red and of Cortez, of what Cortez was forced to endure to keep them safe if only for a little while. She clenches her jaw, refusing to countenance that it will come to that again. Her mind races. What if, _if_ Serrat is telling the truth: if it wasn’t him and it wasn’t them, then who is left?

Sophie speaks, “There was a man.”

Serrat whips around to face her. “A man, Sophie? What man?”

“Russian spetsnaz,” Grace supplies. “Special forces.”

“And what does this Russian man want with my island?”

“Same thing you do,” Grace tells him. “To get us off it by any means necessary.”

“To do this,” Serrat growls through gritted teeth, “he sets bombs in my town?” 

“If it turns you against us,” Grace says carefully. Serrat takes a step back, struck by her words. “He wants to manipulate you into fighting his battles for him.”

Serrat stamps his foot, affronted. “I will not be manipulated by anyone.” As if to prove his point, he aims his gun at Grace’s forehead. 

“Julian, no!” Sophie grabs him by the arm, tugging until the muzzle is no longer pointed so directly at Grace. “She is telling you the truth. I saw him with my own eyes, not far from here.”

“Come then.” Serrat knees Grace roughly in the spine, urging her up. She scrambles to her feet and dusts herself off. He jerks his gun at her. “You will take me to this man.”

 

Grace weaves a path through the jungle, unarmed, with one of Serrat’s foot soldiers pressing his rifle to the small of her back. She doesn’t tell Serrat she doesn’t know exactly where they’re heading. She simply follows the trail she picked up from the Russian’s last known location. Grace thinks he might be injured or suffering from battle fatigue because the signs he has left of his presence are obvious and sloppy. She worries that she might be walking into an ambush for the second time today. But she recalls watching the spetsnaz stumble through the forest, thinking he was unobserved, and she wonders instead if it was possible for him to have set the landmine unnoticed. 

Close by, Grace can hear the almost deafening rumble of rushing water. She stops them, listening with her head tilted.

“It’s just the waterfall,” Sophie says softly. Serrat nods his agreement, pushing at Grace’s shoulder impatiently to keep her moving but she holds her ground.

Now that she knows, Grace spots the telltale droplets of water in the air, kicked up by the violent motion. She studies the way ahead carefully and when the sunlight hits just right, she sees it: a tripwire glistening, moistened by the nearby falls. She puts her finger to her lips and points it out to Serrat and his men.

One by one they step over the tripwire cautiously without making a sound. The men communicate with each other via a series of hand gestures and now that she’s led them here, they no longer wait for Grace to move first.

They locate the Russian down by the falls. He has set up a meagre camp, hidden in the rocks by the river bank but right now, he’s out in the open refilling his canteen. 

He sees them before they can make the first move. He turns away from the river, spraying bullets wildly. Serrat knocks Sophie to the ground, keeping them both out of harm’s way. One of his men, clipped on the leg, goes down and the Russian makes a break for it.

He rushes into the jungle, unwittingly heading straight for Grace. She launches herself at him at just the right moment, tackling him to the ground. His gun goes flying, skittering across the ground, out of arm’s reach and once again, Grace finds herself wrestling with a man who wants to put a knife in her.

But, she has no plans to die today, either.

With a strategic knee to his groin, Grace flips them over. She shoves his face into the dirt and straddles his back. She yanks a zip tie from her belt, restraining his hands behind him. As soon as he’s subdued, she falls off of him panting, waiting for her heart rate to calm. 

Serrat, with his composure regained, claps slowly.

“I must admit,” he says with a new edge of respect to his voice, “I did not think you would have it in you.”

He jerks his head and one of the uninjured soldiers starts toward the Russian. Grace stands and objects, “That man is a prisoner of the US Navy.”

Serrat laughs, sudden and loud. “And you, the US Navy, are a prisoner of mine. So what now, eh?”

Grace sets her jaw. “A compromise,” she bargains, “we’ll take him back to town together, let the people and the Captain know the truth.”

Serrat scowls. “I will tell my people the truth,” he spits. “Not this worm and not your precious Captain.”

He makes a sharp movement with his hand and before Grace can react, his foot soldier has snapped the Russian man’s neck.

Sophie gasps. Stumblingly, she steps away from Serrat. He looks at her and when he does, Grace thinks she sees a twinge of regret hidden in his face. “What must be done has been done,” he says simply. “Come,” he gestures at Grace, beckoning her forward. “Now we will talk at my house. You will tell me about this Russian and how he came to be here.”

“No,” Sophie says firmly.

“Sophie, do not try me...” Serrat trails off as he turns to find her with Grace’s pistol pointed at his face. He swallows audibly. “Sophie...”

“I am doing what must be done,” she says, parroting his words back at him. Grace grabs the fallen man’s rifle to keep the foot soldiers covered too. Sophie continues, “We did as you asked and led you to this man. But now we must go, Julian.”

He stares at her for a few seconds and then shrugs. “If you wish.”

He nods at his men and they fall in, following him as he walks away. 

“Serrat!” Grace calls when he’s almost out of sight. “Remember who placed that mine in the market. It wasn’t us.”

He shakes his head. “That does not mean that we are friends.”

 

Without a tool to dig a grave, they cover the body with broken palm fronds. Grace collects what she can from his camp. Among the spetsnaz’s belongings, she finds two more landmines that she stores carefully in her pack. She looks up to find Sophie watching her.

“They’re not armed yet,” she says in what she hopes is a reassuring voice. “They’re safe to transport.”

Sophie nods absently and Grace thinks that maybe that wasn’t the reason she was staring. “I’m sorry,” she adds.

“You have no reason to be,” Sophie replies sadly. “Perhaps you were not exactly correct about Serrat, but you also were not wrong.”

Grace stands, settling her pack on her shoulders. “Still,” she reiterates, “I’m sorry.”

They dismantle the booby trap before they leave, and Grace rips the fake Delta insignia from the arm of the spetsnaz’s coat.

“Come on,” she says to Sophie, “we’ve got a long walk back.”


End file.
